


Kerosene

by mementomoriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Death Threats, I just wanted to write a thing, M/M, Minor Violence, Other, POV Sebastian Moran, Violence, idek what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:16:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mementomoriarty/pseuds/mementomoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian isn't afraid of Jim Moriarty. He should be, but he isn't.</p>
<p>It's like a game of Russian Roulette with a psychopath instead of a gun.</p>
<p>"There are only three times that I've genuinely feared for my life at Jim's hands. Oh, yes, he's threatened me before, with plenty of creativity and promises of slow, painful deaths at the end. He's hurt me before, too, but those times I knew he wouldn't kill me. They're just meant to hurt. They're just meant for me to remember. Those times usually happen when I've managed to make Jim particularly angry. But only three times have I actually worried that the psychopath would kill me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kerosene

One should always fear for their lives around James Moriarty. For one, he's the most dangerous man in London, possibly the world. And he's a psychopath. He'd kill you just for the sport of it, just because you annoyed him, just because things didn't go his way or just because he was bored. Actually, he wouldn't really need a reason to kill you. If he did, he'd probably go ahead and have someone else do it. Like me, for example. Point is, he's the definition of danger. You should be afraid of him, and if you aren't, you're either lying or stupid. That's what he tells me anyway. You wouldn't expect it, if you just happened to be walking by him on the street, unless you'd seen him pissed, or if you'd seen when he smiled that smile that just promised some kind of pain. He's got soft features, really. Big, brown eyes that on anyone else would look like doe eyes. Pale skin that might have made him look like a porcelain doll. Brown-black hair that he is ever so worried about styling perfectly, if it's not slicked back it looks somewhat fluffy, which Jim would absolutely hate. But on Jim, all of those things scream danger. Well, maybe I just think that because I know him. He has the big dark eyes, but they look like black pits that if you stare at them too long you might fall in and never come back, like he's hypnotizing you slowly without saying a word. The dark eyes and dark hair, combined with his insane smirk and pale skin, somehow manage to make him seem even more frightening, reminiscent of a vampire off of some old black and white film. But here's the catch: I'm not frightened of Jim Moriarty.

I should be. I know I ought to be. He's dangerous. I should have run for my life the day I met him. Maybe that's why I stuck around to begin with, he was danger, and everyone knows I love a good adrenaline rush if I can get it. Not to mention, he had the most exciting and highest paying job offer available. The legality of it didn't much matter to me. I can't explain it, why I'm not afraid of him. Jim asks me sometimes, if I'm afraid of him. 

"No." And his lips will curve into the smirk and I just know he's thinking of how many ways he could make me afraid of him. 

"Liar." He'll say. 

"You don't frighten me." 

"I should."

"I know."

"But I don't?" 

"No." 

"Yes, I do." 

"Maybe, a bit. Not enough to make me run." 

"You wouldn't be stupid enough to run." 

"I would if you scared me." 

"But I don't. Not _enough,_ at least." 

"You don't." 

"I'll have to fix that." He says, and I'll know it's meant to terrify me, but it doesn't. 

I'll only nod. "You do that." 

We've had that exact conversation more than once, I know it by heart. It's hard to resist rolling my eyes every time it begins. I'm not scared of Jim, but I'm not stupid enough to piss him off. Well, usually. Sometimes it's a fun game. And it's always, always dangerous to make him angry. I know that, and sometimes I do it anyway. I know I should fear him. I just don't. The conversation ends with Jim telling me "you're either stupid or you're lying to me, in which case, you're still an idiot. Don't worry yourself, though, you're not near as much an idiot as anyone else is." But I don't think that's quite true. If you're not scared of Jim Moriarty, you're an idiot, a liar, or you're just as insane as he is. 

 

There are only three times that I've genuinely feared for my life at Jim's hands. Oh, yes, he's threatened me before, with plenty of creativity and promises of slow, painful deaths at the end. He's hurt me before, too, but those times I knew he wouldn't kill me. They're just meant to hurt. They're just meant for me to remember. Those times usually happen when I've managed to make Jim particularly angry. But only three times have I actually worried that the psychopath would kill me. Good thing I was wrong, or I wouldn't be telling this story today. 

 

The first time was nothing important, just a drunken haze and the memory of a knife pressed to my throat. That's nothing out of the usual for me, and maybe it was just because I didn't know him, or because I was drunk out of my mind, but I thought he'd do it. I thought he'd slit my throat then and there. I hadn't been working for Jim for very long. I'd gotten drunk and at the time, I was smoking two packs a day. In a haze of alcohol and nicotine, I made the stupid mistake of telling Jim I was taking the night off. When he told me to get back from the pub, so help me, Sebastian Moran, I will slit your throat, I didn't believe him. He's smaller than me, and at the time I'd never seen him hurt anyone else without getting an employee to do it for him. I didn't get back from the pub. Jim, looking completely out of place in one of his suits by Alexander McQueen, marched into the pub and all but dragged me out of there, shoving me into the back of a waiting cab. I fought and struggled against him, and at the time I blamed it on being drunk, but I soon found out that if Jim wants something his way he's going to get it, and if that means fighting with an ex-military employee, so be it. I don't remember much of the threats he hissed at me, but I have a very clear memory of the cool of the knife against my throat, and the prick of it biting into my skin, and the way my own blood dripped slowly down my neck to soak the collar of my shirt. I cleaned up after that. Been sober ever since. 

 

The second time was my own fault. It's fun to infuriate Jim sometimes, see what threats he comes up with today, how far can I push before he decides he's done with it, and would he actually follow through on any of those threats? It's like a game of Russian Roulette with a psychopath instead of a gun. And yet, despite all the annoyance he'd given off in his texts, he came back to the flat perfectly calm. He took off his tie, shrugged off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, offering to cook dinner. I always cook dinner. But hey, if he's offering, what's a little change going to hurt? I should've known better. Jim wouldn't ever offer to cook dinner just for the sake of offering, he hates cooking. It's boring, it's ordinary. Not to mention, if Jim ever hands you something to drink or eat, and you didn't see him preparing it, don't put it into your mouth. But that's beside the point. I was reclining on the sofa, watching the television, and Jim had to walk behind the furniture to make it to the kitchen. I should have noticed that he didn't leave his tie with his carefully folded jacket. Next thing I knew, there was an expensive silk tie around my neck, pulled tight by Jim's hands. He was choking me. I tried, I tried to pull the tie from out of his hands, to relieve the pressure on my throat, to get free from it. The more I struggled, the tighter he pulled the tie around my neck, cutting off my air supply even more which only served to make me fight back even harder on instinct, in a desperate attempt to save my skin. Just when I was beginning to see black spots in my vision and could already feel my lungs constricting in my chest and my body going limp, he let go. "Don't tempt me again, Moran." He'd said. 

 

The last and final time was the most terrifying. I don't know what prompted it. Remember what I said about taking food or drink from Jim if you didn't watch him make it? I meant it. Don't even take tea. I made the mistake of thinking tea was safe. It wasn't. 

"Sebastian. Tea." 

"Boss?" 

"Tea, I said." He said, rolling his eyes, pushing the mug of hot liquid into my hands. I took it gratefully, thinking nothing of it as he perched in an armchair nearby, drinking out of his own mug. 

"Why are you looking at me like that?" 

"What? No reason." I wasn't stupid enough to believe it. His mouth formed a devilish grin and there was a glint in his eye that I knew well enough to be cautious about. About halfway through my mug of tea, everything began to feel a bit numb. Three quarters through, and I couldn't quite speak right, and I was looking at Jim, brow furrowed. 

"Feeling sleepy yet, Basher?" 

"I hate'chyou." I managed. Or something similar. As you can guess, the details are a bit fuzzy.

"Mind your manners, Sebby!" Jim said in that sing-song voice of his, just as my vision began to blur and I blacked out. 

God knows how many hours later, I woke up in a cellar somewhere, nothing but a cement floor, four walls, and a heavy looking door. I woke lying on the floor on my back, with my hands bound behind me, painfully bearing most of my weight. There was a pounding in my head and a vague feeling of numbness. I cursed loudly, before managing to roll onto my stomach. I moved my wrists and fingers experimentally, trying to test the strength of the knots that held me and the numbness in my hands. The knots were too good for me to wiggle out of, unfortunately. 

After struggling for what I at the time estimated to be ten minutes (Jim, who was casually observing through the safety of a camera, claims that it took me at least thirty, but I say otherwise), I managed to put my weight on my shoulders, bring my knees beneath me and sit up in a kneeling position. But Jim's drug of choice had some nasty side-effects, and I vomited nearly immediately, my body trying to rid itself of the rest of the toxin. It was at this time that Jim chose to make his dramatic entrance, swinging open the door and singing "I wouldn't do that, if I were you, Bash, I'd lie back down." It was phrased as a suggestion, but I could see it for what it really was. Lie back down or I'll make you into an armchair, or something along those lines. I didn't need to be told twice. "I expect you know the rules by now." He said, like it was some kind of game that we'd been playing, not my life or my death being toyed with. "Don't move." 

He went to retrieve something from the other side of the door, somewhere that at the time could've been a figment of my imagination. All that existed was that little cellar, it was my life and my death, in that moment. He returned, carrying a gasoline can. I swore, frantically trying to sit back up, to get on my feet, to get away. I didn't know what he was going to do with the kerosene, and I didn't want to find out. He merely put his free hand in his pocket, tilted his head to one side, and tsked. "I said don't move. I expected more from you, Moran." The sing-song, saccharine sweet voice was gone. It was replaced with something almost as terrifying, if not more so. A smooth, clinical voice that I've seen him use only with people who particularly pissed him off. It was usually followed by something that wasn't very pretty, and Jim making me clean the blood off all the walls just because he could. I don't claim to understand Jim Moriarty, I don't think I could, but I do at least know him. And I knew him well enough to recognize that voice meant business. I swallowed hard, and stilled. He flashed an insane smile at me, that might've been meant to be reassuring if it were anyone but Jim, but it was gone just as soon as it appeared. Humming some classical piano piece, he uncapped the gas can and began to pour kerosene on me, soaking my clothes. I panicked. 

"What are you _doing,_ boss?!" I shouted, near hysterics, honestly. My heart threatened to leapt out of my chest, and the adrenaline rush made me feel a little high, or maybe that was just an after effect of Jim's drug, or both. 

"Sebastian." He said, calmly, evenly. I stared up at him, gaze flicking between the can in his hands and the bliss evident on his face. He was perfectly okay with dousing me in kerosene oil, and whatever would come next. I stay frozen to my spot on the floor, transfixed by the cobra eyes staring back at me. "Stay still, or I will be forced to shoot you in the spine so you _can't_ move. Am I clear?" 

"Yes, boss." I muttered, shifting in an attempt to get the weight off my hands, but otherwise I remained perfectly still. This only served to make Jim's grin broaden. He continued pouring the oil on me until my clothes and hair were soaked through with it. By the time the can was emptied, I was dripping and a pool of the foul-smelling liquid had formed around me. 

"Perfect." Jim purred, making me shudder, as he set the can aside. My breath came in great, ragged gasps and even before he pulled the matches from his pocket, I knew this was it. This was my end. This was going to be my slow and painful death. 

"Boss." I said, and I admit it, my voice faltered a little. I'm not proud of it. "Please." 

Like I said, not proud. 

"Please, what, Sebastian?" He said quizzically, kneeling out of reach of the kerosene, and quirking an eyebrow me. 

"Jim..." I began and my voice trailed off. He gave me a sharp, disapproving look. 

"Basher." 

"Please, don't." I managed to grind out through gritted teeth. 

"Don't _what?_ " He snapped irritably, rolling his eyes. "You know I hate vague answers, Sebastian." He said it in a way that said he knew what my vague answer meant, but wanted to hear me say it. 

"Don't kill me." 

He threw his head back and laughs, a dark, maniacal kind of laugh that chills me to the bone. "Basher. You knew I was going to kill you, one day. Surely you didn't think I'd spare you from that. No, remember, I'm the only person who's allowed to kill you. Surely you weren't stupid enough to believe you were something special, that my threats didn't mean anything." He stood, pulling a single match from the box, twirling it between his fingers as he began to pace around me. 

The match stopped moving and I glanced back at his face, where he quirked an eyebrow at me, watching me intently. I realized that I'd been watching the match he held in his fingers, and that he hadn't spoken for some time now. "Poor, pitiful Basher." He tutted, striking the match. He turned to me, small flame flickering in his fingers. He hummed appreciatively, kneeling beside my head once again. "Beg for it, tiger. I want to hear you beg for your life." 

I instinctively writhed away from the small bit of fire, "Please, boss," I murmured between breaths, unable to take my eyes off the lit match. "Don't. Please, don't." Jim leaned forward, to hold the match just above my face, far too close, and I couldn't move away from it. I turned my face away, fighting the ropes that held my wrists and screaming "Please! Don't! Let me go, please, please! Boss! Please stop, don't!" He blew the flame out just before it burned his fingers and tossed it away from him and the puddle of kerosene I was lying in. I squeezed my eyes shut, relieved.

"That was rather good, darling, but I think you can do better." There was the sound of another match being lit and my eyes snapped back open, only to find another small flame hovering above my face, closer this time. I screamed, arching my back and pressing my face against the cool cement of the floor in a desperate attempt to get away from it. I screamed for what felt like hours, until my voice cracked and I'd screamed myself hoarse before Jim blew out the second match. He didn't say anything before lighting the third, and by the time he blew it out, I was sobbing for my life, pleading, willing to trade anything if please, God, could he please blow the match out and let me live? 

"Bash. I wouldn't burn you." I still have yet to figure out what that means, or what caused this unusual circumstance. "I'd have _cut_ the heart out of you."

**Author's Note:**

> I was in a mood for life-threatening Jim. This is what came from having a Jim Mood. Not sure if it makes sense, but there it is. Hope you enjoyed~


End file.
